


The Messenger

by girldetective



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girldetective/pseuds/girldetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The mark was placed with calculated precision.  Low enough on the neck that the bearer would think it hidden by his collared shirt, high enough that it would be revealed when he turned his head to beckon the waiter.</i><br/>"Rosie? You're...staring at my neck." Jack said.<br/>Rosie examines the evidence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Messenger

The mark was placed with calculated precision. Low enough on the neck that the bearer would think it hidden by his collared shirt, high enough that it would be revealed when he turned his head to beckon the waiter. 

"Rosie? You're...staring at my neck." Jack said, with a touch of amusement.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I've been distracted." Rosie replied, and then she was brought back to Windsor dining room by the soft sound of silver on porcelain. 

The amusement faded from his eyes, replaced by gentle concern, and Rosie was sorry to see it go. It had been six weeks since the sordid business with her father and Sidney, and since then Jack had been checking in on her with gratifying frequency. Of Rosie's recent revelations, the most pleasant was the unexpected return of her ex-husband's sly sense of humor, which Rosie had thought forever lost. 

Although, perhaps that wasn't quite true, perhaps it could be traced back further than that, even to before their divorce. 

The last days of their marriage were so painful, so desperate and quiet, except on those occasions, on one of the few nights when Jack managed to be home in time to eat with her, when, in the midst of scraping their steel flatware against the ceramic plates in silence, Jack would stop, smile distantly, and then look up at her with something close to a twinkle in his eye. 

"You'll never guess who showed up at my murder investigation today..." He would begin.

"I don't believe it. " Rosie would say, breaking into a smile. "How does she even know where to go?"

"I hate to say it, but it's probably witchcraft." 

And then Rosie would laugh out loud. Which only encouraged Jack to go on to tell her another outrageous story about a lady detective who kept inviting herself to his crime scenes, coming up with the most hare-brained schemes, and getting the most satisfying results. Jack was a gracious story-teller, although often irritated with Miss Fisher's antics, he was never disrespectful towards the lady, and he always made himself out to look silly too-- all in the hope of making Rosie laugh. 

Dear Jack, this was the first time they'd eaten out together since the incident, and this was her first time at the Windsor's dining-room in a long while. Rosie was not back out in society yet, indeed, she may never be as active as she once was. 

The last time she'd dined here it was with Grace Compton and Helen Worthington, the wives of two members of Sidney's more upwardly mobile crowd of shipping magnates and industrialists. They were, without a doubt, a more fashionable grade of woman than the sensible constables' wives she'd kept company with when she'd been married to Jack. However, they were worse gossips, and Grace had been the one to inform Rosie that her ex-husband had supposedly fallen thrall to Miss Fisher's charms.

"Constable Evans says that that woman calls and your Inspector drops everything and comes running." Rosie had tried to look politely interested even as she immediately dismissed the accusation. Evans was an officer of little distinction, while Jack's arrest record had actually gone up in recent weeks, according to her father, and jealous constables always had something negative to say about their successful superiors. Look at what they said about her father. 

"He's not my inspector anymore." Rosie had replied.

"Losing you must have driven him to distraction, he's gone mad. To keep time with a woman like that." Gracie had continued.

Rosie was not about to gossip about Jack, when he'd never done anything but act decently towards her. Rosie still felt guilty, she was so happy with Sidney, her comfortable new life and increased social status, while she'd left Jack behind, alone with his work and his empty flat. 

"Don't shoot the messenger, dear." Gracie said, misinterpreting Rosie's glare. "That woman has all sorts of men coming out of her house, she doesn't even bother to hide it. Although her staff stays tight-lipped about it." 

Gracie paused to sip her tea, and then went on. "She probably black-mails the lot of them. Remember that circus that came through last week? Mrs. Longbourne swears she saw two of the male acrobats scuttling out of the Fisher house last Saturday morning." 

"My Elsa stopped by to drop off some clothes for her church's raffle, and saw Miss Fisher's butler boiling ropes." Said Helen significantly. 

But Rosie had not seen the significance.

"To soften them for unsavory uses." Helen explained in a lower voice. And when Rosie still did not seem to understand. "She ties her lovers to her bed and has her wicked way with them!" Helen finally exclaimed.

Rosie had just laughed. Perhaps Gracie and Helen expected her to be jealous, but they didn't know Jack, who would never involve himself in anything like that. 

Even when they were married, Rosie had never felt threatened by the prostitutes, seductive con artists and other sorts of fast women that Jack met on the job. Miss Fisher, lady detective and famous libertine, was in that category of woman. And if the divorce had somehow destabilized him, the resulting loneliness leaving him vulnerable to a temptation so available, Jack was not the sort of man who could attract a woman like Miss Fisher. 

He was not fast enough for Miss Fisher's crowd, he was not even fast enough for Rosie's new crowd. Or what had been Rosie's new crowd.

That was what made Jack such a comfort to her now. She'd had enough of ambitious men, men who were prepared to give up their honor, the reputation of their families, to get a promotion. Steady, reliable Jack, sitting across from this table, still wearing the suit she'd bought for him eight years ago, looking quite out of place at the stylish Windsor. 

He'd never been ambitious enough for her before, but now...well, she still had Sidney's and her father's houses and holdings, and between one and the other being in jail, and the fact that public perception of her second marriage was such that she'd be sure to make out well in her second divorce...she no longer had to rely on Jack's ambitions to make her life comfortable. And after her family had figured in the scandal of the season, Rosie found she now had little taste for fashionable society. And if she should turn to the embrace of her loyal ex-husband, with his warm gaze and strong arms to help her through this difficult time, who would blame her? Fondly, she remembered the comfort of his warm body, she knew it would be the same as she had left it, because Jack was steadfast and unwavering, a constant.

Rosie roused herself and asked Jack to please pass the sugar. Of course, he placed the sugar at exactly the right distance from her cup and saucer, and as she lowered her eyes and murmured her thanks, she noticed Jack's sleeve had drawn away from his wrist, where two or three long light red marks could be seen. Marks that could have been made by the light chafing of a softened rope coiled around a man's wrist. 

Rosie instinctively reached out but Jack jerked his hand away, pulling his cuff back in place and then quickly checking that his other wrist was still covered. Ah.

Disconcerted, Rosie quickly drank her water down. A minor surprise, but not a real setback. How long could a man like Jack captivate a woman like Miss Fisher? Rosie only had to wait until Miss Fisher cast Jack aside, and then Rosie would be there to pick up the pieces.

But when Jack asked the waiter for the check, the waiter bent towards him discreetly and said, "I've been instructed to put your meal on the account, as usual, sir."

"No, no." Jack adamantly refused, but Rosie had already heard. 

Jack would never have an account at the Windsor. Rosie had chosen the venue, and she would have bet money that Jack had never been inside the place before today. But wait, the waiter had not said, "your account," he'd said "the account." Not Jack's account, then. Jack dines at the Windsor frequently with someone else, someone who always picks up the tab. 

And then she knew. The placement of the marks, the way they were obvious to everyone but Jack, the way they lead the eye down his collar, past his wrists...Rosie suddenly knew that beneath the suit she had bought him, Jack's body would not be as she remembered it. That it was covered with delicate bruises, long shallow scratches, lovingly administered bites...all messages for Rosie. And not from Jack. 

That Jack was not one of a string of lovers, that he was a kept man, whether he knew it or not, and that Phryne Fisher had seen fit to announce this to the world.


End file.
